


Black Dragon Pearl, a Tea Clipper Romance

by okapi



Series: Twelve Cups of Tea [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brief Reference to Bondage, Captain!Sherlock, Card Games, Cunnilingus, Dream Sex, F/F, Falling In Love, Fem!Everybody, Genderswap, Inspired by Art, Mermaids, Music, Questionable Marine Biology, Reference to Suicide (Lestrade), Silly, Squid!Stamford, Tattoos, Tea, mermaid!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:05:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The Science of Deduction</i> is the fastest tea clipper in the business, sailing with the precious Black Dragon Pearl tea from China to London in a record 100 days. What happens when her mutinous crew toss her Captain overboard, right into the arms of a mermaid bored with luring sailors to their deaths? </p><p>All genderswapped, except for Squid!Stamford. Inspired by <a href="http://charminglyantiquated.tumblr.com/post/92698552078/a-little-love-story-about-mermaids-and-tattoos">this artwork</a> by <a href="http://charminglyantiquated.tumblr.com/">charminglyantiquated</a>.</p><p>Explicit rating is for chapters 7 & 8, which are dream/delirium sequences (Fem!Mystrade and Fem!Johnlock, respectively). The story proper is a Teen rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plop Goes the Sherlock

“Bored! Bored! Bored! I’m so hatefully bored!” cried the mermaid. “What?”

Her companion spewed a stream of bubbles.

“Oh, no, I haven’t any 9’s. Go fish.”

While one tentacle snapped a passing fish and shoved it in a gaping mouth; the other removed a card from the deck. The deck of cards was held down by a rock, more precisely, held down by a rock on a dead man’s chest.

“Luring men to their deaths isn’t fun anymore, Stamford,” lamented the mermaid. “Mostly because there really isn’t any sport. For instance, this fellow.” She nodded the man serving as their card table. “I barely had to sing a few bars, flash these,” she waved at her breasts with her hand of cards. “Don’t peek at my cards! And _chu-chu-chu_ ,” she made a twirling motion with one finger, “ _plop!_ ”

Her companion bubbled again. Holding his cards tightly, he pantomimed a menacing gesture with all eight arms and two tentacles, snapping his beak and rolling his saucer-big eyes.

“Yes, but it’s slightly nobler: frightening them to death with your monstrous form. You prey on their fear and imagination—not just their lust.”

Small bubbles rose.

“ _Slightly_ nobler, I admit. Do you have any 4’s?” The mermaid frowned and took a card. “I do like his tattoos, though. We’re becoming quite the connoisseurs, aren’t we? What do you think this one means?” Her companion shook his head. “This one is his name.” The mermaid set her cards down on the man’s trouser front and put a rock on top of them. Then she ripped the fabric of his shirt with two hands and read from his pectoral. “John. Watson. A very solid, dependable, salt-of-the-sea name. If I were human, I would be called ‘John Watson.’”

More bubbles rose, and one arm pointed to the skeleton half-buried in the sea floor behind them.

“Okay, almost as solid as ‘Stamford.’ But close. Very close. Too bad you don’t have ears. Those spectacles made you look dashing.” Her companion shrugged, or would have shrugged, if he had had shoulders.

More bubbles. “Here.” She handed over a card and continued.

“He looks like a nice man. Idiot, but nice. Nasty wound to the shoulder. Wonder where he got that? It wasn’t me.” With one arm, the giant squid brushed the round joint protruding from the torn sleeve and shook his head. “Not one of you, either, eh? Hmm.”

**_PLOP!_ **

They both looked up and then looked at each other.

“That was a human-sized _plop_. Shall we investigate?” The squid held up one arm. Then he showed two pairs and fanned his arms in jubilation. The cards floated above their heads.

“You always win!” huffed the mermaid. “Let’s go!”

* * *

“You will rue this day! All of you!” cried Sherlock.

“Perhaps,” replied the dark-haired woman with the serpentine green eyes. “But right now, it’s bloody perfect. Good-bye, witch.”

Sherlock scanned the crowd at the side of the ship. All the faces were bright with glee, save one.

“Lestrade! What lies did she feed you? Because that’s what they are, lies!” The auburn-haired woman pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Her profile was sad and weary. She didn’t turn her head; she just gave a weak wave of her hand and mumbled, “May God have mercy on all our souls.” Then she disappeared from the grinning throng.

“Under Moriarty’s command, the _Science of Deduction_ will never reach London first, and you will not receive your premiums! You won’t be sipping Black Dragon Pearl in fine tea houses; you’ll be swinging from the gallows. My sister will ensure it!”

“We’ll see about that! Your sister hates you as much as we do!” cried Moriarty. “Time for Captain Witch to go where she belongs.”

“Captain Witch! Captain Witch!” the crew chanted.

“Here are your witch tools!” A bag flew overboard.

“Hey! We could’ve used those. _Idiot!_ ” Moriarty hit the woman on the shoulder.

“Oh, sorry, uh, Captain!”

“She’s not Captain yet, Seb!” cried Sherlock.

“Oh, yes, I am!” Moriarty motioned to Seb, who leaned over the side. Two crew members held her legs as she reached farther down with a brush and small pail of black paint.

When they pulled her up, the side of the ship read the _Science of Destruction_ in crude black letters.

A visceral pain ran through Sherlock. “Well, in that case, there’s nothing for me.” She looked down.

Moriarty stomped on the plank, and Sherlock fell gracelessly into the murky water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a true WIP with almost no historical accuracy. It ostensibly takes place sometime around 1866—when the [Great Tea Race](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Tea_Race_of_1866) occurred. For those readers familiar with some of my other stories, it is shaping up to be like the [white tea story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1844497/chapters/3965734), a fantasy romance.


	2. Getting to Know You

Sherlock felt her head and shoulders cradled in strong arms. She opened her eyes. A pair of brown eyes looked back at her with a concerned expression.

_Disappointing._

_Heaven. Angel._

She tilted her head and took in the angel’s bare shoulders and breasts.

_Much like the painters imagined. Except no wings._

“Hello,” said the angel.

_Pretty smile. Friendly, warm, open. Angelic._

Sherlock attempted a reply, but the ‘hello’ came out a garbled noise. Her lungs burned. Caustic bile and water rose in her throat. She flung her head in the opposite direction and curled away from the angel’s face, coughing, snorting, spitting, retching.

A hand rubbed circles into Sherlock’s back, and a voice hummed with an almost maternal tone. When the corporal violence ceased, Sherlock wiped her mouth and nose with the sleeve of her damp tunic and stared.

_Aquamarine-coloured scales. Fish tail. Perhaps angels are, in reality, more fish than bird? Interesting._

Sherlock’s head and shoulders were lowered slowly and gently to the sand. The angel retreated toward the incoming tide.

_Tide. Beach. Not heaven. Earth. Sea._

Sherlock’s gaze passed over the dark round mound that bobbed among the waves in the near distance to a brown blur on the far horizon. It was a blur that she recognized instantly, intimately. Memories of the mutiny flooded her mind.

_Not heaven. Hell. Hell on Earth._

The...creature’s...for Sherlock no longer considered her celestial...expression darkened from concern to worry.

“You fell overboard. We can take you back to your ship.” She pointed to the brown blur, growing smaller and smaller.

“We?” The second word was more recognizable than the first, but Sherlock’s nose, throat and chest still stung.

“Stamford and I.” The creature pointed to the dark, round mound. It rose from the water, revealing...two enormous eyes...and a tentacle arm...that was waving.

_Monster. Sea monster. Named Stamford._

“No,” said Sherlock, her voice returning. She waved one hand weakly. “I didn’t fall. I was thrown. I am not welcome back there.”

The creature gasped. “Why?”

_Avarice...alchemy...arrogance...brilliance._

“My first mate convinced the crew that I was a witch.” _Confusion. Explain, Sherlock._ “A supernatural creature...” _Perhaps like yourself_ “...of a malevolent spirit.” _Rescuing a drowning stranger would argue against malevolence, but, also, perhaps, like yourself._

“Are you?”

“No.”

The creature’s face fell.

_I’ve disappointed you. Interesting. Perhaps you are a malevolent spirit, seeking like-minded peers._

“I simply make observations and draw conclusions from them—observations that ordinary human beings fail to make and conclusions that ordinary human beings find embarrassing. But it isn’t magic or witchcraft or sorcery. My first mate wove a clever conspiracy against me in order to seek power for herself. She succeeded and took my ship for her own.”

“Oh! How horrible! You draw conclusions. What kind of conclusions?”

“I can determine a person’s occupation, marital status, hobbies, recent activities, sometimes in great detail, just through observation.”

The creature smiled. “Like...a...game? Charades.”

Sherlock considered. “As children, my sister and I used to engage in it as a kind of sport. We would challenge each other, give each other an object or point out a person and deduce as much as possible.”

“We love games!”

“You and...”

“Stamford.”

“Hmm. Deduce me!” She pleaded like a child for a toy.

Sherlock stared. Then she furrowed her brow. The creature sat up on the beach, her blue-green tail extended beside her. She struck an almost defiant pose, hands on hips, chin jutted out.

_Upper half of a woman, lower half of a fish. Impossible. No, however improbable, she must be a..._

“Mermaid.”

“Yes,” said the mermaid, drawing the word out, expectantly.

_She wants more. I haven’t any more. What are mermaids like? Are they the stuff of children’s fairytales? Or sailors’ sea shanties? Or poets’ nightmares?_

“I’m afraid I’m at a loss.”

_More disappointment._

“How about Stamford?”

“Uh...”

At the mermaid’s gesture, the bobbing head burst from the water. It was a colossal round orb with large eyes and squirming legs. It reared its head back to reveal a cavernous mouth hooded by a sharp beak. Of the ten legs, eight were smooth and two were covered with sucker-like protuberances.

“Stamford is a...sea monster.”

The mermaid huffed.

“An intelligent sea monster, as I see no evidence of his—or yours, for that matter—being caught in any net.”

_Finally, something. Isn’t it? Flattering._

The sea monster bubbled. The mermaid hummed and inched back into the water, not looking at Sherlock.

_Not good enough. She’s leaving. No!_

“Wait! You can’t expect me to come to conclusions about two...species...that I didn’t even know existed until moments ago. I observe _humans_.”

_I am brilliant! I am!_

“Alright,” said the mermaid. “Stamford, go get the card table.” The dark mound disappeared.

“You play cards?”

“Yes, I like cards.”

“So do I. I am expert in dozens and am familiar with the rules and variations of more than one hundred.”

_I am brilliant! I am!_

“We only know one game: Go Fish.”

 _Go Fish, Go Fish, Go Fish. I am doomed to disappoint this creature._ “I am not familiar with that one,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Well, I also like music. I like...your music.” The mermaid’s cheeks flushed.

_My music?_

Thought of her violin made Sherlock sigh and look at the horizon. The brown blur was gone. A tally of all that she had lost scrolled through her mind.

_My ship, my experiments, my music..._

“Your last journey I followed you all the way to the edge of the Warm Waters, listening to your songs at night.” Sherlock's sorrow evaporated.

_A fan, how charming._

The mermaid stretched out one arm, curled the wrist and drew an imaginary bow across it.

“Music helps me think. Playing. Composing. It helps...everything. Do you have instruments? Do you play?”

The mermaid shook her head. “But, I...sing a little.” Her blush deepened.

_She’s nervous. Why?_

“Oh,” she said quickly, “Stamford’s not a monster, he’s a giant squid. But please don’t mention the ‘giant’ part. He’s very sensitive about it.”

Sherlock had no response to the non sequitur.

“He’s very...small...for a giant squid. His parents are,” the mermaid stretched both arms out, “as big as your ship. Most of his kind are very, very large. But he’s,” she drew her hands together, “not.”

Just then, Stamford popped up in a great splash and threw a bloated corpse at Sherlock’s feet.

“Alright. What do you make of this fellow?”

_Finally! A chance to shine._

“His name is...”

“John Watson,” supplied the mermaid.

“Yes. Well, he’s a military man. British navy doctor. Seen some trouble. India. Stationed in Madras, but has seen other parts of the country. Was part of the putting down of the uprising that occurred there some months ago. Likes his tobacco. Unmarried. Drowned two days ago."

“Extraordinary!” The mermaid clapped, and Stamford waved two arms. “Quite extraordinary!”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Most recently,” Sherlock stared at the horizon, “’Walk the plank, Captain Witch!’”

The mermaid looked sad for a moment, but then said, “Okay. How did you know?”

“He’s tan, but nothing above the wrist. He’s been in the sun, but not on holiday. His haircut says military. He has a series of tobacco stains on his fingers. His shoulder wound is at least eight months old. No wedding band. And no tan line on the left finger to suggest that there was one. But most of his story...”

“Yes?”

“...can be read in his tattoos. His name, of course, obvious. This one, indicates that he’s a doctor,” Sherlock looked up to the mermaid’s puzzled expression, “someone who uses their knowledge of the human body to help heal or comfort the sick or wounded,”

“Ah! Okay. Continue.”

“...this large one is emblematic of India, the nearest sub-continent, but the ink is of an unusual colour that I’ve only seen used in the city of Madras. These two smaller ones suggest that he’s seen other parts of India as well.”

“I like tattoos,” said the mermaid.

Sherlock touched her left hand to her right arm instinctively. “So do I.”

“Sometimes I create entire stories about what their meaning and origin, but you, you actually know.”

“Many times. Do your kind have tattoos as well?”

“No,” she said.

“You see a lot of humans?”

The blush returned. “What about the wound?”

“The wound is obviously from severe trauma, not a single bullet wound. It also shows signs of a healed infection. The British Navy put down a local uprising about nine months ago in Madras. Two ships were shelled in the process.”

“Fantastic!” cried the mermaid.

_Does she know she’s doing that out loud?_

“And,” said Sherlock triumphantly, “he cheats at cards!” She produced a 4 of diamonds from the corpse’s sleeve. Sherlock waited for more accolades, but the mermaid’s face turned to thunder.

“No, he doesn’t! Stamford!”

Stamford’s eyes rolled away from the mermaid’s glare. Then he slowly sank down into the water.

“That,” said John, snatching the card from Sherlock’s hand, “is ours. Come back here!” The dark round mound reappeared.

The mermaid huffed and then said, “We’ll be leaving now. We can ferry you to the next passing ship if you’d like.”

“Where am I, exactly?”

“An island. Not inhabited by humans, as far as we know, but we haven’t explored the interior.”

Sherlock thought of the cramped ship and the friction of close quarters. “Splendid. Alone is what I have; alone protects me...” She looked behind her, and her words died at the sight.

_Two, four, at least nine skeletons, or pieces of them, half buried in the dunes._

“Those,” said the mermaid quickly, “are our friends.” Sherlock gave her a startled look. “And by friends, I mean... _victims_.”

_Whatever comes next has to be the most interesting conversation of my existence._

“You killed them?” asked Sherlock.

“We lured them to their deaths.” Stamford tapped her shoulder with one arm. “Most of them. A couple Stamford killed. By accident.”

“How?”

“Stamford scares them, and they fall overboard. I...sing to them...and they fall overboard.”

“Men?”

“Yes.” The mermaid looked down at the water.

“How many?”

“Two hundred forty...” The mermaid looked at Stamford, who held up a tentacle and two arms.

“...three.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open.

The mermaid spoke quickly. “But, that’s because Stamford counts the entire crew of the _Anna Christina_. He claims that he scuttled the entire vessel, when I argue that the _hurricane_ helped immensely.” Stamford wiggled three arms in one direction, and then the opposite direction, and then splashed the water, in crude pantomime. “We have a friendly...competition.”

“To see who can murder the most sailors. That’s how you know about human tattoos.  And your music...your voice...is...your weapon.”

The mermaid looked uneasy and mumbled, “Now I understand how your crew felt.”

Sherlock ignored her. Only one word occurred, and she said it.

“Fascinating.”

The mermaid’s face brightened. “Really?”

Sherlock nodded. Then she took a deep breath and scanned the landscape behind her.

“We can return tomorrow, if you’d like. If you need tools, utensils, we can help locate them.”

“Thank you. I would like that. And thank you...for saving my life.”

_Such that it is._

Sherlock stood up carefully and walked to the edge of the water. She extended her hand towards Stamford.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock shook the offered tentacle. “Stamford,” she said with a curt nod. “And...”

The mermaid smiled. “John Watson.” Sherlock laughed and took her hand. She turned it palm down and bowed formally, kissing the top.

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Sherlock formally.

“Likewise. See you tomorrow.”

* * *

Sherlock stared at the night sky, considering all that the day had wrought.

_The mutiny...the drowning...the rescue...the island._

Her mind returned again and again one notion, of two parts:

_I was rescued from certain death by the most prolific pair of serial murderers in the known world..._

_...and I may be falling in love._


	3. Cutting a Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lesson in cards and an experiment in music.

“So that’s how you play,” said John. “And lose at Go Fish.”

The following day found the three of them bobbing in a still water inlet. Sherlock, trousers rolled, straddled one end of the piece of driftwood currently serving as the card table. Stamford had just laid down his final pair.

“Perhaps the playing field isn’t quite as level as you suspect.” Sherlock took up one of Stamford’s cards and, with her fingernails, pried it into two separate cards.

“Stamford!”

In a violent burst of spray, Stamford disappeared beneath the water. Sherlock and John looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“I get that reaction a lot,” said Sherlock.

“He’s fine. Just sulking. Now teach me one of your games.”

“Ahhh...well, my favourite game,” Sherlock looked back at the shore, “requires a board, but we might be able to improvise. Back to the beach.” John paddled Sherlock back to land.

“I used to play this with my first mate,” said Sherlock, poking holes in the sand with a stick.

“The one that betrayed you?”

“Hmm. We were quite alike in our natures. And you learn an awful lot about someone playing cards with them. Whether it was a simple thirst for power or just a desire to destroy me, I don’t know. Probably a combination of both. She hid it well. But not well enough. We stopped our little games, and she made her move. Alright, thirty up and thirty back. Two pegs each. You move like this. There’s the deal, the play, and the show. Let’s start with the deal...”

* * *

“Ha, ha, HA!” cried John. “I won, I won.”

“There is such thing as beginner’s luck,” grumbled Sherlock.

“You didn’t let me win, did you?”

Sherlock huffed.

“Maybe I’ve found my game. Let’s play again,” said John.

“Yes.”

* * *

Four games later they were evenly tied.

“Thank you for the bottles. I found a source of fresh water for drinking. And some fruit. I haven’t encountered any predators, save for some interesting-looking insects.”

“Your shelter is coming along. You must’ve worked all night,” said John, pointing with her lips to the canopy of woven fronds behind them.

“I require very little food, even less sleep,” replied Sherlock.

“Want some help?”

Sherlock dragged limbs of leaves to the water’s edge and they sat side-by-side braiding them into sheets. “You shouldn’t have long to wait long. Another vessel will be along in the next few days, perhaps sooner.”

Sherlock gazed at the horizon and shrugged. “I’m not especially keen to be rescued.”

“You don’t miss your home?”

“At the moment, no. I miss my music, my experiments, tea...” Sherlock fell back onto the sand and looked up at the sky.

John lay back alongside Sherlock, splashing her tail in the incoming tide. “Ah! Your music!” John hummed a few bars and threw a sly look at Sherlock.

“That is my own composition!” cried Sherlock.

“It’s my favourite. You played it a lot during the last journey.”

“Sing me one of your songs.”

John’s face clouded. “No,” she said firmly.

“Why not?”

“Because I wouldn’t wish to harm you.”

“How so?”

“My songs drive men mad so that they _chu-chu-chu, plop!_ ”

“I’m not...unfamiliar...with mind-altering substances.” John looked at her. “There are certain plant derivatives. Some produce energy; others trance-like stances.”

“And you consume them?”

“On occasion.” Sherlock sat up, elbows on bent knees. “Between journeys, when my experiments falter, when there are no puzzles to solve, I get so frightfully _bored_.”

John smiled.

Sherlock continued, “They’re usually smoked or injected. I’ve never actually heard of auditory exposure, but then, I’m coming to realize, there are so many things I’ve never heard of before yesterday. What I mean to say is, I’m willing to risk being driven mad by your song. And there is one other factor that may be in my favour.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not a man.”

John tilted her head in consideration. “I’ve never actually tried to murder a female human. There are so few at sea—save your crew, of course. You mentioned experiments.”

“That’s my chief occupation, other than sailing. Scientific inquiries into the natural world. Sometimes they lead to inventions or discoveries. Sometimes they just destroy the flat. Or my cabin.”

“Wanna try one now?” John grinned.

“God, yes.”

* * *

“Ready?”

“I am a hapless sailor, gazing at the moon!” Sherlock was again astraddle the driftwood, not far from shore.

“It’s more impressive at night, in a storm!” John called behind her.

“I’ll pretend. Do you worst!”

“Here we go!”

John dove beneath the water, then reappeared. The song started out a faint whisper but grew into a haunting melody. A fierce wind blew the water surface, creating a wave that grew stronger, taller, bolder with every note. John appeared, riding its crest, blonde hair fanned out behind her, arms beckoning. The song reached a thunderous crescendo, and the wave crashed.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. She reached out her arms and, leaning, fell off her floating perch.

“Sherlock!”

John grabbed her and brought her to the surface. She tread water with her tail and held Sherlock’s head above water. She cradled her in one arm and brushed her damp hair from her face with the other.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock giggled and sputtered. “Enchanting...but not intoxicating. Again!”

John laughed. “Silly creature!” She dunked Sherlock back under the water.

* * *

After several encores, Sherlock and John were seated side-by-side on the beach, watching the sun set. A dark mound appeared on the horizon.

“Time to go,” said John.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

That night, two minds held one thought:

_Tomorrow cannot come soon enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are playing cribbage, my favorite card game.


	4. Lines Drawn in Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reveals her tattoos and the Mystrade subplot.

_It’s just transport._

_Just transport._

_Who am I fooling?_

Sherlock consciously slowed her breathing as John’s finger touched her arm.

“Oh, I see it now.”

The first game of the day had led to a discussion of tattoos, and then Sherlock’s admission and John’s subsequent demand. Sherlock’s coarse tunic was bunched tightly in one hand at her chest.

“I see the violin. What else?”

“A ship. A tea cup. A glass beaker.”

John frowned. Sherlock pointed down her arm.

“Oh! I should’ve seen those! I like it very much. At a distance, it’s a city.”

“London.”

“Your home?”

“Yes.”

“Is there water?”

“There’s a river.”

“Cold?”

“Very.”

John frowned again; her finger skimmed Sherlock’s skin. “Up close, there are all these hidden pieces. A puzzle.” The new word fell clumsily from her tongue.

Sherlock nodded. “My first mate drew the design.” John’s eyebrow rose. “She is quite the artist. Her sketches serve her the way that my music serves me.”

“So she was your friend, at some point?”

Sherlock sighed and looked at the horizon. “No.”

 _Should I show her? I’ve never shown anyone._ _Breathe, Sherlock._ Then her eyes met John’s.

“I have another.”

John raised one eyebrow. Sherlock lowered tunic to reveal a small bouquet of lilac-coloured rose buds painted on the swell of her left breast.

“Ah. Your love?” asked John.

“First love.”

John studied Sherlock’s face. _Do you see? Do you understand?_

“Mother love?” Sherlock nodded. “She’s gone?” Sherlock nodded again. _A long, long time ago._

John let her gaze drop. “Another game?”

“Yes.”

* * *

“Four.”

“Thirteen.”

“...and so there was no one, no one in your entire crew, who would take your side?”

“Seventeen.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“In the end, no. Most were simple-minded women. They believed the fabrications that my first mate spun. But one, she did not believe; she _could_ not have believed. But I suspect that she was blackmailed.”

“Blackmailed? Thirty.”

“Go! Forced to go along with mutiny or face repercussions. In title, she was the ship’s navigator, though my knowledge of navigation is so extensive, there was little need for such a role. In reality, she was our law and order. I had no time or patience for the petty squabbles of the crew, so they would bring their disagreements to her for arbitration. She broke up fights. She settled disputes. Though I never told her, she was...invaluable. And I felt that we had a mutual...respect. But she voiced no objection when they forced me onto the plank.”

“Nine.”

“Eleven.”

“Sixteen. I still don’t understand ‘blackmail.’”

Sherlock sighed, showing her hand and crib. “Six and four. My sister owns, among other enterprises and properties, the trading company. It specializes in importing high quality teas from China. She’s quite powerful and well, above base inclinations. Or so I thought. I believe that she has an...” _What is the word, Mycroft? Something bland and polite “..._ appreciation for the woman in question.” John’s frown persisted. _You don’t see?_ “The navigator is married to another, a gentleman of explosive temper—thus, her interest in work that removes her from his presence for lengthy periods of time.”

John showed her hand. “Eight. _Ah_ ,” her expression cleared, “Married is like mates? Life-mates?”

“Yes. And there are children.” Sherlock pursed her lips and shrugged. “Quite a few, actually. My sister would never do anything inappropriate; make any untoward utterance or gesture, especially in public. The rest of the world is quite ignorant of her...”

“Appreciation?” John supplied.

“Yes. But I noticed the few times she deigned to visit the vessel when we were in port. And if I noticed, then, my first mate probably did as well.” _You did not hide it well enough, Sister Dear. Caring, indeed, is not an advantage._ “Plus, the children mysteriously received scholarships that allow them to study in Scotland.” _You showed your hand quite plainly there._

“Oh the nibs! Two!”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen for two.”

“Twenty five.”

“Twenty eight.”

“Go! I confess that I did not realize the extent to which the sentiment was reciprocated. I think my first mate threatened the navigator with exposure, either for herself and her family or—more likely—for my sister. My sister’s position as a widow is quite enviable. Allows her a freedom in our society few women enjoy. But even she would face dire consequences if her appreciation were revealed to certain parties. And Lestrade, well, she might be destroyed. Quite literally. It is taboo in our society for women to openly enjoy that particular type of intimacy.”

“Ten.”

“Twenty for two.”

“Thirty.”

“Go!”

“Ten.”

_Should I ask? Do I want to know the answer? It’s a purely scientific inquiry. For science!_

_Liar._

“Does your society have the same taboo?” asked Sherlock, with feign casualness. “Fifteen.”

John tilted her head in thought.

“Nine and six. Well, the less possibility for offspring, the more rare the coupling....but there are instances of interspecies mates.”

 _Interspecies? Not exactly the same thing. But, promising..._ “Ahem, but more precisely...,” began Sherlock.

Suddenly, they were both slapped in the face with seawater. The expanse of sand that was serving as their board washed away.

“Stamford!”

The dark mound bobbed in the distance, arms flailing. Another spray of water--this time mixed with dark ink--spouted from his mouth.

“Stop!”

Violent bubbles appeared.

“I think Stamford’s a little...jealous...of the time that I’ve been spending with you. I’d better go.”

_Jealous...interspecies mating...OH!...Stupid, stupid, stupid..._

Sherlock stuttered, “You and Stamford are...” John pushed back toward the waves. She looked over her shoulder, then looked back at Sherlock and shrugged.

Before John could answer, Sherlock added quickly, “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“Of course, it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine?” asked John pointedly. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” She slipped into the water.

Sherlock watched her and Stamford disappear.

_Mycroft, I owe you an apology. You will never receive it, but, finally, I understand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. The Weeping of a Crocodile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock introduces John to tea, recounts a mermaid tale, and composes.

The next morning John found Sherlock pacing impatiently along the shoreline.

“John! The most improbable thing happened!”

“What?”

Sherlock burst into rapid-fire speech. “A bag of my personal belongings—my ‘witch tools’ according to the crew—washed up on shore last night. Look.” She opened a brown bag. “A good knife, and this is a tool used for magnifying objects, making them appear larger, but it can also be used,” Sherlock looked overhead, “perhaps a little later in the day, to generate fire. Fire, smoke rather, ward off some of the insects that plague me at night.” Sherlock scratched at the line of welts on her arm. “I can cook a fish—not that the fruit and nuts aren’t fortifying—but I think some variation in my diet might provide more strength. I just need to fashion a line and a hook...”

“You want a fish?” asked John with a chuckle. “Tell me what kind of fish you want. I can capture anything with fins and scales that you desire!”

Sherlock nodded. “Can you consume human food? Or drink?”

John tilted her head and finally shrugged. “I don’t know.” She looked down at her body. “Probably.”

“I told you that I performed experiments, that I invented things.”

“Yes.”

“One of my inventions, perhaps the most lucrative, was a thin paste that could be spread on wood, fabric, or other material and would render that material quite impermeable to water. My sister found a way to produce large quantities of this paste and treated the shipping crates with it. It is part of what makes our tea superior to competitors. Though we occupy a small share of the overall tea business, we charge a premium for quality. I also developed—with considerable input from our Chinese associates—a way to form the tea into small balls. The shape also contributes to the overall taste.”

As Sherlock spoke, she cut open a sealed bag and poured out small brown-and-black pellets. “Find me a pot and two mugs, and I will make us tea. I want you to taste the elixir that brought me to your shore.”

John smiled. “Okay. What’s a pot?”

* * *

“Here you go,” said Sherlock, walking to the edge of the water, where John sat splashing. She handed her a mug. “Be careful; it’s warm. It is usually served with milk, sugar, sometimes even lemon, but for now, try it black.”

John stared at the brown liquid. Then she put it to her lips and sipped. She swallowed. She frowned and then stared again.

Sherlock bit her lip.

John looked up at her, grinning. “I love it!” She drained the cup and held it up. “More!”

Sherlock howled.

* * *

“So sailors’ stories about my kind are not so far off,” said John.

Sherlock hummed.

“What’s the most popular tale?”

“There’s one—by sailors. It’s for children. It starts, “Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal...”

“...But when we see a naughty or a wicked child, we shed tears of sorrow, and for every tear a day is added to our time of trial!”

John stared at Sherlock. The cards lay untouched between them.

“That’s...horrible.”

“Yes.”

John flapped her tail, and her face fell. “She endured all that for someone who mated someone else.”

“Yes.”

“Immortal soul.” John let the phrase fall from her lips.

“The concept puzzles me as well,” said Sherlock.

“Do you think that is what it would be like to have legs? Like knives.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. As of late, I have been mainly occupied with what it would be like to have a tail—and gills.” John turned her head and gave her a small smile.

“How about some more tea?” asked Sherlock.

John nodded.

* * *

They sat side by side, watching the sun dip into the water. John cupped the empty mug in her hands. She began to hum softly.

“That’s not your murder song,” teased Sherlock.

“No. It’s something someone sung to me. A song for sleeping.” She hummed more.

“For children.”

John nodded.

“She’s gone?” asked Sherlock quietly.

“A long time ago.” They sat in silence for some time, and then Sherlock rose.

“Sing it again.” She found a sturdy stick. John sang, and Sherlock scratched on the sand.

“What are you doing?”

“Transcribing.”

John sang and swam, head out of the water, accompanying Sherlock as she moved down the beach. When the song ended, Sherlock waved her hand and said triumphantly:

“Mermaid’s Lullaby, for voice and violin.”

John clapped. Then she turned. “Wait.” She dove below the surface. When she reappeared, her face was grave.

“Sherlock!”

“Yes?”

“Move your shelter inland as much as possible, and strengthen it with whatever you can find.”

“A storm is coming.”

John nodded.

“You’re going?”

John nodded again. “Optimal conditions.”

Sherlock returned her smile. “Happy hunting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Black Dragon Pearl](http://www.teavana.com/the-teas/black-teas/p/black-dragon-pearls-black-tea) is a tea from Teavana. Very tasty. My current favorite. Sherlock and John discuss Hans Christian Andersen's story _The Little Mermaid_. I was originally planning to do a re-make of that, until I actually read it. Hell. No. I'll stick to the version with the singing crab. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. Red Sky at Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loses and finds. And finds and loses.

“Sherlock...”

“I know.”

Sherlock didn’t look up. She sat amidst strewn debris, scratching idly in the sand with a stick. She pointed with her chin down the beach. The remnants of two large crates were scattered across the rocks; the only intact side was labelled ‘HOLMES TRADING COMPANY.’ Black-brown sodden lumps were being washed away in the tide.

“She sunk.”

“Yes,” said John softly.

“Entire crew...dead.”

John nodded. “I don’t know what the ship was still doing in that area. Maybe the storm blew it off course.”

A two-person rowboat moved of its own volition toward them. John swam to it and pulled it the remaining distance to Sherlock. Stamford’s head appeared.

“Take me there?” asked Sherlock.

John nodded and handed her a piece of wood. “You can say ‘good-bye.’” Sherlock snarled at THE SCIENCE OF DESTRUCTION and hurled it toward the rocks.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the boat. Bits and pieces of ship floated around her. One by one, John brought the bodies up. Sherlock named each, adding a comment or two.

“Where is Lestrade? Auburn hair, large build, small stature, a scar here,” Sherlock drew a line with her finger from cheek to clavicle.

“I didn’t see her.”

“Look again, please. If I ever see my sister, she will want to know...” John nodded and vanished.

Sherlock surveyed the destruction. The boat rocked. One round squid eye materialized and blinked, and then a long arm dangled a dark case in front of her face.

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. She stared at the case and then grabbed it.

“Thank you,” she said solemnly and reached for Stamford’s hand. She shook it. “Thank you very much.”

John’s head popped out of the water. “I don’t see her, Sherlock. Maybe she was blown farther away. Or escaped somehow.”

Sherlock huffed and ran a hand through her hair. “Highly unlikely that she survived at catastrophe of this nature. Perhaps she will wash up on the island as well.” She shook her head and then brightened slightly. “Stamford found this.” She held up the case.

“Your violin!”

“Yes. I crafted it and the case myself, treating the wood to minimize the warping effects of water and sea-air. It might...it just might...be playable. I want to take it back to the island and see.”

John nodded.

“Sherlock...”

“I know. There are two left, apart from Lestrade.”

“Stamford’s bringing them up. They’re...together.”

The bodies surfaced, locked in an embrace. Sherlock cupped Moriarty’s jaw and stared for a long time. She gave a weak wave when she released her grip. The bodies sank back into the murky depths.

Sherlock hugged the case. “Thank you. Please take me back.”

* * *

“What do we do?” asked John. “It’s been three days. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t talk. She just sits.” Stamford bubbled. “And plays the violin.” More bubbles. “Alright, I’ll give it a try.”

John swam to the shore. She pushed up and out of the water on her hands and began to sing the lullaby into the darkness. Sherlock emerged from the curtains of foliage, violin in hand. She played, and John sang. When the song ended, John said,

“Sleep.”

Sherlock nodded. She returned to the shelter, and John heard the violin case close. She made to turn back into the water, but then she heard Sherlock say, in a small voice,

“Sing it again.”

John smiled. Sherlock lay down on the dune, curled on one side, and closed her eyes.

John sang and sang. She only stopped when she felt a tentacle tug at her tail.

“She’s sleeping. Finally. What? Okay. I’m coming.” __

* * *

“SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK!”

“Oh!” said John. “It’s _her_.”

The auburn-haired woman was slumped over the edge of a boat that was much smaller than the usual trading vessels. She turned her head to the side, and John could clearly see the vertical scar than led down her cheek. She gripped a bottle in one hand and swung a strand of beads in the other.

“Where! Are! You! I’ve...I’ve searched everywhere...not one scrap of clothing...not one lock of hair...Ha, ha!” She took a swig from the bottle. “Not even the bloody magnifying lens! Nothing I can send back...I can send back to...to be buried properly...in proper English soil. JESUS CHRIST!” She stood up and curled her arms around her head. “I was a coward. A bloody coward! I shouldn’t have listened; I shouldn’t have paid her any mind; I should’ve stood by you. I was scared. So scared. Me! Scared. HELL! I left the boat at the next port...after you...after we...after...Aw, hell!” Another swig. “I left and wrote to your sister. I told her everything that happened. Didn’t bother to beg for forgiveness. What possible forgiveness is there for me?! After she...she sent the girls to Edinburgh, didn’t she? I know she did. She never said...I never said...Christ! We never said anything...but...Bloody storms! I can’t find you. And I can’t face her. I can’t live with myself. I. Can’t. Go. On.”

John fell below the water. “What do we do?” she asked Stamford. “Really? That’s your answer for everything. Uh, okay.”

The bottle dropped with a plonk in the water, nearly missing John’s head. The woman crossed herself with her other hand. “May God have mercy on my immortal soul!” The beads went flying.

John lifted her head above water and opened her mouth.

The woman pulled herself onto the railing, wobbling. She stilled when she heard John’s song.

“Oh!” She collapsed back onto the deck with muffled cry. She rubbed her nose with her sleeve. “An angel’s lullaby. Huh!” John’s voice grew louder. “Maybe I’ll just...rest here...for a minute...and jump...in the morning.” John heard a soft thud. Then she sank to the sea floor.

“It’s time, Stanford.” Stamford bubbled. “For Sherlock to go home.” More bubbles. “I know. Rescuing sailors _is_ more satisfying than murdering them. Hmm? Everything’s a game to you! Here’s a game: let’s see how fast you can get us back to the island.” Stamford held out two legs, and John grabbed on tightly.

“GO!”

* * *

“Sherlock! Wake up!”

Sherlock snuffled and then grunted. She opened her eyes.

“Get your things and get in.” John pushed the rowboat onto shore. Sherlock stared. “GET. YOUR. THINGS. NOW.” Sherlock scrambled to the shelter and emerged with her bag and case. She stepped gingerly into the rowboat. John pulled it farther out and then sank underneath it, popping up on the other side to push.

When they reached deeper water, John inched around the edge of the boat carefully with her hands. “Stamford?!” With a loud splash, John was catapulted out of the water and into the boat. She curled opposite Sherlock, her tail awkwardly flailing to one side.

Sherlock scratched at her arm. The trail of angry welts bled.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock lowered her tunic sleeve quickly. “It’s nothing.” John studied her face. “You look...pink.” Sherlock touched her own cheek instinctively, but made a dismissive wave.

“Just sun.”

“It’s nighttime.”

“Then moon. It’s just transport,” she barked peevishly. “WHY AM I HERE?”

John handed her the circle of beads.

“Lestrade! She uses these to pray...”

“She’s been searching for you.”

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “It’s time to go home,” she said without smiling.

“Yes.”

* * *

The rowboat hit the side of the ship.

“Lestrade! LESTRADE!”

Lestrade peeked over the rail.

“SHERLOCK! Is it you? Am I dreaming? Am I dead?”

“No! It’s me!”

A cascade of vomit fell into the water.

“Pull yourself together, Navigator!”

“It _is_ you!”

Some minutes later, a rope ladder appeared on the side of the boat. Sherlock climbed up, carrying her case and bag. When she reached the top, Lestrade wrapped her arms around her neck, weeping and blubbering.

“Wait!” said Sherlock. She descended the ladder once more. “John!” She searched around the boat.

John surfaced at the far end of the rowboat.

“Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Follow us to the edge of the Warm Waters. I can fashion a...box...made of glass. Filled with salt water. Heated. You can come with me back to London.”

“You would capture me in a net,” said John ruefully.

“I would have you with me.”

“To play cards?”

“To play cards and drink tea and solve puzzles and make music and tell horrible stories and do experiments and be bored with...to sleep and wake and everything in-between.”

John smile fell. “These are Warm Waters, Sherlock Holmes, and you’re a Cold Water creature.”

“SHERLOCK! WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?”

“I thought so, too. But now...” Sherlock cupped John’s jaw and pulled her closer. John lifted out of the water. Sherlock leaned down, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips...

...to air.

“Good-bye, John Watson, Warm Water Creature.” Sherlock watched a stream of bubbles rise and break on the water's surface.

* * *

“That wasn’t nice at all, Stamford!” Stamford waved his legs and tentacles. “That was just a silly story! I wouldn’t end up with knives in my feet! I wouldn’t end up with feet at all!” John sighed. “You not finding a mate has nothing to do with... _that_...it’s because you’re so romantic.” Stamford rolled his eyes.

John looked up toward the surface. “I _love_ her.” Stamford patted her on the shoulder. “You’re right. No reason that we shouldn’t be miserable together.” Stamford pointed toward the sea floor.

John shrugged.

“Go Fish? I'll let you cheat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!


	7. Mycroft's Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a London parlor, a widow dreams. Fem!Mystrade. Explicit.

Mycroft’s breath caught at the sight of her, straight back, head high, ocean breeze lifting tendrils of hair.

_What was she doing? Watching the waves? The moonlight? The moonlight on the waves?_

Mycroft approached the ship’s railing an arm’s distance away from her.

“Oh, Christ!” exclaimed Lestrade.

“My apologies for startling you.”

“Widow Holmes, how unexpected for you to make the final leg of the journey with us!”

“I appreciate your patience with the delay that my arrival caused.”

“Patience? Most of the lot have scampered away with their bonus in hand. We’re bringing her in with a skeleton crew.”

“Nevertheless, my thanks, Widow Lestrade.”

Lestrade turned her head sharply. Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a _joke_?”

“Humour isn’t an attribute for which I’m known.”

Mycroft produced a folded newspaper from her voluminous skirt. “He died from an infection secondary to injury, an abdominal laceration with the edge of a broken bottle, to be precise. I made a couple of inquiries, part of the reason for my tardiness. You will receive official notification, of course, in port.”

Lestrade read the article below Mycroft’s thumb.

“That’s his pub. And if there was a brawl and if it was a large one—and it must have been if it made the papers and caused that much damage—then chances are he was there, in the thick of it.”

Lestrade stared at the printed words, pupils not moving. Then she turned to face the water.

“I’ll have to tell the girls.”

Silence.

“Five daughters, no son. He never got what he wanted.”

“He never got what he deserved,” countered Mycroft coolly. Then her tone softened. “My additional apologies for being the bearer of such unfortunate news.”

Lestrade nodded and pursed her lips.

“I’ll leave you to your grief.”

* * *

_She still there._

Mycroft placed a blanket around Lestrade’s shoulders. “My Dear…”

Lestrade pulled the wool tight around her. “Ha! I didn’t realize how cold it was. Until now. I can’t move. Isn’t that _funny_? What did you do when you got the news? About your husband?”

“I drank half a bottle of port. _His_ port.”

Mycroft met Lestrade’s raised eyebrow with a smile and a beckoning gesture.

“This way, my Dear.”

* * *

Two glasses of dark red liquid sat untouched on the small table between them.

“He would have killed me. Eventually.” Lestrade’s hand flew to her scar.

“Yes,” agreed Mycroft. “Either directly, through violence; indirectly, through accident; or the old-fashioned way, by _breeding you to death_.”

“I love my girls.”

“Doesn’t make bringing them into this world—or keeping them safe—any less perilous.”

Lestrade took a sip. Mycroft consciously mirrored her action.

“I know it was you. The scholarships. Edinburgh.”

Mycroft shrugged. “They are bright girls, well-deserving, resilient, like their mother, if for nothing more than surviving the complete incineration of their domicile.” Mycroft’s lips twitched in a grimace. “Twice.”

“You got them out of harm’s way. All of them.” Lestrade gestured to the folded newspaper on the far end of the table. “You didn’t…?”

“Despite rampant rumour and speculation, I’m not _actually_ in the business of killing husbands. Even my own. The importing and exporting of goods keeps me quite occupied.” She made a theatrical examination of her fingernails.

“And comfortable,” said Lestrade, taking a long sip. She grinned and held up the glass. “This stuff is good.”

Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat at the flirtatious tone, but she gave a casual, dismissive wave of her hand.

When Lestrade returned her glass to the table, Mycroft stared at the two: the line of dark liquid had not fallen in either.

“This is a dream,” she said abruptly. “My dream.”

“It is?” asked Lestrade, nonplussed. “Am I a figment of your imagination?”

“Fantasy, to be precise,” said Mycroft. “But yes.”

Lestrade hummed and downed the remainder of her glass in one swallow.

“Then I plan to drink up ‘cause this stuff is _very_ good.”

* * *

“Tell me a secret, Mycroft.”

Lestrade leaned forward and licked her lips. “I am sure that you have volumes. I just want one. A small one. An insignificant one. Between us widows.”

Her wicked smile hypnotized Mycroft for a moment. Then Mycroft selected a slim tome from her library.

“This is not my natural shape,” she announced.

Lestrade frowned.

Mycroft continued, “There’s a certain _image_ that a widow is expected to portray in society. I thought if I looked more like someone’s mother—no offense—“

“None taken,” said Lestrade with a smirk. She leaned back in the chair and gestured to her bosom and belly and hips. “I am the mother of five someones and have the body to prove it.”

“—than his mistress, I might side-step at least some unwanted advances on myself and my assets. Also gives me an innocuous appearance, which, at times, has worked to my advantage. In business and public affairs.”

“Now, you’ve got me dream-drunk _and_ curious.” Lestrade’s voice fell to a whisper. “I want to see you.”

_And I want to be seen. By you. Desperately._

“Strip, Widow Holmes,” said Lestrade, grinning and beckoning Mycroft to stand.

“After you, Widow Lestrade.”

Mycroft was struck by her own cheek; she had never spoken so boldly to another—woman or man—in her life. Further confirmation that this encounter was pure imagination.

“Dreamer first,” insisted Lestrade.

Mycroft pushed back from the table and got to her feet. She unfastened her dress and slipped it off her shoulders. The padding fell away, and she plucked more from her inside her chemise. She stepped out of the pool of fabric and cushion and stood with arms crossed over her torso. Then she rolled her shoulders back, lengthened her spine, and lifted her chin.

“Oh my goodness! You’re…”

“Like a man? Yes, I know…”

Mycroft’s words died when Lestrade took one of her hands in hers.

“Beautiful. Or handsome, if you prefer. Both. And more.”

_Dream. Just a dream._

Mycroft collapsed in the chair.

Lestrade kissed her fingertips gallantly; then she rose.

“My turn, but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. Mine’s not going to come off. My, uh, matronliness, that is…”

“I would bury myself, drown myself, all manner of actions that describe envelopment and denote eternity, in you, in your curves, in your flesh…”

“Mycroft Holmes, you are a poet-dreamer.”

“Apparently.”

* * *

Mycroft could wait no longer. She held Lestrade’s cheek in her palm. The kiss was light and chaste, a mere brushing of lips. Nevertheless, her knees buckled. She felt Lestrade’s arms around her waist.

“Swooning already, Widow Holmes?”

“No one is more surprised than I. Must find my sea legs in this storm. Somehow.”

Mycroft steadied herself and wove her fingers in Lestrade’s auburn hair. She leaned in to her again. Then soft lips opened, heads tilted, and arms shifted until they found the embrace, the position, the angle that closed the space between them, making them two parts of a single form. The kisses grew longer and more heated. The cabin filled with the noise of wet mouths searching, of sharp urgent inhales and long, sighing exhales. They took turns, exploring and being explored. Cheeks and necks and ears and eyelids and always back to mouths, corners and plump centres and Cupid’s bows.

Mycroft kissed along Lestrade’s jaw; then she dotted Lestrade’s chin, nose, and forehead with quick pecks. She squeezed her in a tight embrace, feeling the layers of flimsy material that separated their bodies.

“Just fantasy,” mumbled Lestrade.

“Yes,” whispered Mycroft.

Lestrade slipped the strap of her chemise off one shoulder. “Then there’s no harm, no shame…”

Mycroft swallowed loudly and cleared her throat; even so, her voice was low and husky. “No shame at all. And I would cut off my own hand before harming you. Waking. Sleeping. No matter.” She brushed Lestrade’s cheek with her palm and Lestrade turned her head into the caress. Then Mycroft bent to kiss Lestrade’s shoulder. “Let me ravish you.” She slid the other strap of Lestrade’s chemise down her arm. “Let me write on your skin with my tongue what I am too much the coward to confess with words.”

“Coward? Hardly. You seem to be quite apt at romantic confessions, Poet-Dreamer. I want you bare, too. I want to feel your skin on mine.”

When the last of the undergarments littered the floor, Lestrade pushed backwards to the centre of the bed; Mycroft crawled after her, like predator following the scent of prey. The prospect of having the object of her desire—even in dream—was too tempting. She pounced.

And then Mycroft was atop Lestrade, pushing her legs apart impatiently and settling between them, devouring her neck and breasts with a greedy mouth, kneading whatever soft flesh her hands touched. She pulled her hair back roughly, further exposing Lestrade’s neck to her tongue and teeth.

Then Mycroft looked up. Her heart stopped.

Lestrade’s eyes were focused on the ceiling of the cabin, and the expression on her face was not one of anything close to rapture. It was not anxiety or discomfort, but rather something much more disconcerting.

_Idiot!_

Mycroft felt the word like the snap of a barbed flogger at her back.

_Mount her just like that ape’s been doing for decades! Show her there’s no difference been his rutting and yours!_

Mycroft cursed herself again. Then she slid her hands under Lestrade and rolled them.

“What…? Is something wrong?”

Mycroft pushed Lestrade by her shoulders. Taking the cue, Lestrade sat up, straddling Mycroft’s pelvis. Then Mycroft leaned back on the pillow and curled one hand behind her head. She said casually, “I am at your disposal, Widow Lestrade. Whatever you wish to explore or have explored.” She waved a hand at her own nude body. “Or not.” She glanced at the table. “We have a still-full bottle of dream-port. We could get riotously drunk…play cards…sing sea shanties…” Mycroft eschewed subtlety, for once, and asked bluntly,

“What do _you_ want?”

A nervous giggle bubbled from Lestrade’s lips. Then her gaze travelled to the edge of the bed, head cocked in contemplation. She turned back once; Mycroft kept her expression one of invitation and welcome, carefully veiling all but a fraction of her eagerness.

“I…don’t…know,” Lestrade said slowly. She bit her lip. “Is that insulting? Not much of a fantasy.”

“Take your time. I am a solid sleeper. We have all night…or afternoon, if I am remembering correctly.”

Lestrade trailed a tentative fingertip over Mycroft’s head and torso, her eyes following her digit with a child-like curiosity. Then leaning forward, resting her weigh on one hand, she slowly brought her puckered lips to Mycroft’s. It was, as their first kiss, chaste and brief.

Mycroft felt her pulse quicken as Lestrade’s smile morphed from shy to mischievous. She took each of Mycroft’s wrists and slowly guided her arms, outstretched and slightly angled toward the headboard, crucifixion-style. She pressed Mycroft’s hands to the mattress and commanded in a low voice,

“Stay.”

Mycroft was sure, in that instant, that predator had become prey.

And that the fantasy had just begun.

Lestrade ran her hands on the underside of Mycroft’s arms toward her ribs; Mycroft snuffled at the ticklish touch, but she kept her arms pinned to the bed. Her lips twitched as Lestrade’s hands roamed over her torso.

“Widow Lestrade?!” she gasped with mock astonishment as Lestrade’s fingers found a nipple and pinched it.

Lestrade responded with a dry smirk. “We do, on occasion, stop in Singapore.” They laughed and Lestrade covered the pink bud with her mouth and suckled tenderly. Mycroft squirmed at the wet heat and moved her hands to the back of Lestrade’s head.

“Un-huh.” Lestrade returned Mycroft’s wrists to their original, outstretched positions. She loomed over her. Her tone was like a caress, but her words had the incense-laden quality of a prayer, an ecclesiastical petition.

“I would like to have you at my mercy, Widow Holmes, corporally…”

Mycroft responded, “…as I am in spirit.” Lestrade bent to kiss her, this time with open, wet mouth and hungry tongue. Mycroft groaned.

Then Lestrade shifted to the end of the bed, picking up one leg and then the other. Kissing the back of Mycroft’s knee, her ankle, her instep. She looked up at Mycroft and Mycroft was struck again by the sheer beauty of her.

Lestrade eased up on one side of Mycroft, her hand gliding over navel, hip, buttock, mons. Her mouth followed.

_It is just a dream. Just a dream. No harm, no shame._

No harm, no shame in Mycroft opening her legs, in arching her hips, in allowing that beautiful mouth to touch her, taste her, ignite in her a desire she never permitted in her waking hours.

So she opened and arched. And came.

In silence.

And then Lestrade was encircling her with her entire body, making soothing noises that probably—after years of sleepless nights and scraped knees—issued from her lips without prompt or thought. Mycroft soaked up the affection, the care like a dry sponge, but soon she was writhing against her invisible bonds. “Let me!” she cried. Her voice rose in frustration and then fell to a whine, “Let me, please.”

_When’s the last time you begged for anything, Widow Holmes, twice?_

“Here.” Lestrade straddled Mycroft anew and cupped her breast. Mycroft curled her head up and latched onto the nipple like a hungry child. Lestrade’s hip began a slow grind.

“Oh, God! More” moaned Mycroft when Lestrade shifted so that Mycroft could bury her face in her cleavage, licking and nuzzling the valley, before being allowed to feast on the other side. And then Lestrade was inching closer and closer to the head of bed. “Yes, yes, yes,” breathed Mycroft when her hands were flat on the cabin wall, her thighs spread wide.

Lestrade balanced on one hand and opened her folds with the other. Then she slowly lowered her clit to Mycroft’s lips.

And as was now their want, the first kiss was more breath than touch, but the resulting tremor that ran through her lover’s body was the most beautiful thing Mycroft had ever witnessed. Lestrade looked down at her.

“Yes!”

“Yes,” agreed Mycroft.

Two more kisses, each a little longer and a little wetter than before and then Lestrade slid down, covering Mycroft’s body with her own. She rolled clumsily on her back, rubbing full-bodied against Mycroft like a satisfied feline, and then laced her fingers in Mycroft’s and pulled them onto their sides. She brought their joined hands to her mons and said,

“Show me. Show me what I like.”

Mycroft teased Lestrade’s clit gently. She brought her other hand across Lestrade’s face, pushing her hair back from her ear, and whispered,

“You like soft and warm and wet and slow and open and sweet—“

“Ah, ah, ah, AH!”

This time, Mycroft felt the tremors. And they were no less beautiful for being felt rather than seen.

They remained like that—Mycroft curled around Lestrade, two hands clasped between her legs, breathing together, eyes closed—for a dream-eternity.

When they finally uncoiled and Lestrade turned to face her, Mycroft blurted,  

“Come live with me. You and the girls.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft trembled at the sound of her name, her own name, without title or attribution, falling so casually, so perfectly, it seemed from her lover’s lips.

“My home has ample space. Far too much space.”

“You have no idea the chaos—the sheer noise!—that you would be inviting into your quiet life.”

“Please.”

“As what? Your charity case? People will talk.”

“They do little else. We’ll find an appropriate role. Lady’s companion?” The last word was pronounced with disgust that melted into amusement at Lestrade’s laughter.

“Oh my!” Lestrade giggled. “I’ll help you into your Mummy suit every morning.” She snorted.

“As long as you help me out of it every night…”

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

“IF YOU’RE QUITE DONE AND HALF-SOBER, I DO HAVE A SHIP TO STEER!” barked Sherlock from the other side of the cabin door.

Mycroft rubbed her eyes.

_Curse her! She disturbs my waking, my sleeping, and every state in-between!_

“I better go,” said Lestrade, easing from the bed.

“Consider it?” Mycroft winced at her pleading tone.

“I don’t need to consider it. YES!” said Lestrade, swooping down to plant a quick peck on Mycroft’s lips. “We’ll work the details out once I’ve told the girls.”

* * *

Mycroft was still smiling when she woke. Her tea sat cold on the table.

“Ma’am?” The butler hovered over her.

 _Grey pallor._ _Standing too close. Bad news._

“Yes, Anthea?”

“Correspondence,” he said.

_Very bad news._

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft took the letter and the letter opener from the silver tray. She studied the writing: not Sherlock’s. It was the crude hand of someone—adult, not child—who’d recently been taught to write. She turned the envelope over, and the string of beads fell into her hand. She clutched them and unfolded the pages.

Her skin drained of colour as she sank to the sofa.

_Not both of them. I can’t lose both of them._

“Book passage, Anthea,” she ordered. “Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”


	8. Sherlock's Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aboard the rescue boat, fever-mad Sherlock dreams that she is a cecaelia, half-human, half-octopus. Explicit.

Sherlock leaned down, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips to John’s. She instantly felt an energy, a spark, a force that was…even to her logical, scientific mind…

…magical.

In chasing the enchanting sensation, she toppled from the rowboat into the water with a loud _plop_. As she slowly descended to the bottom, she watched with eerie detachment as her clothes dissolved and her body cooled, seemingly matching the temperature of her murky surroundings. Her eyes were wide open, but did not sting; in fact, her vision seem to grow keener as she sank. She could easily distinguish the grey shadows of fish that eyed her suspiciously as she dropped. Her skin from the waist down grew tough and turned a dark orange. Her legs quivered and twitched with a strange prickling. Her feet disappeared, and her legs…

…multiplied.

She counted.

_Eight. I have eight legs. Not legs, precisely._

She twisted them and eyed the suction cups that decorated the underside of each.

_Arms? Tentacles?_

She wiggled them at random until she reached the floor of the sea. Then she pushed off the bottom with a synchronized motion, hurtling rapidly toward the surface, where she heard John calling her name.

“Sherlock! Sherlock? OH!”

Sherlock heard her clearly, though they were both submerged.

“John!”

John laughed. “The story was right! The kiss was magical! But I didn’t become part of your world, you became part of mine!”

“So it appears.” Sherlock smiled. “Extraordinary. How is it that I am able to…?” She examined her waist, where rubbery film met human skin. Then she ran her hands over her arms and chest, turning her head this way and that. Her upper body appeared unchanged—even the tattoos remained. She touched her head, noting the waves of hair that fanned out from her scalp. “My gills must be…”

“Internal,” said John. “Not like mine.” She touched the series of thin slits on either side of her neck.

“But I can breathe air, too?”

John nodded. Sherlock propelled herself upwards, bursting through the waves. She inhaled deeply.

“Interesting.”

John joined her, bobbing in the waves. She said, “It fits: cecaelia are the rarest—and most intelligent—of seamaids.”

Sherlock spun around, dipped, and resurfaced.

“John, I want to know everything there is to know about this new world.”

“Let’s go!”

* * *

They swam side by side for hours. Their progress was slow as Sherlock demanded to know the name and characteristics of every living and non-living thing they passed: fish, mollusc, plant, rock.

“I don’t know, Sherlock!” sputtered John. “It’s just sand.”

“Just sand? But this sand differs from the sand we passed earlier. It’s clearly of a slightly darker colour and large granule size. Probably distinct mineral composition. It bears investigation, don’t you think?”

John smiled.

“Yes, yes, of course. But I just call it ‘sand.’ All of it.”

The first sunken ship they reached, Sherlock was ecstatic. She deduced all manner of things about the vessel and its captain and crew. She repeated her expostulations at every site they encountered.

“So, John, you can clearly see from the manner in which the wood is splintered toward the hull of the ship—“

John interrupted her. “Oh, hey! There’s Stamford! Hello, Stamford!”

A loud booming voice cried, “Hullooo! Oh my, look at you! So the magical kiss happened after all! A cecaelia, no less!”

“It good that we met you,” John said, “Sherlock, Stamford can teach you things that I cannot.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You have the same defence mechanisms,” explained John. “Well, from the waist down.”

Stamford bubbled. “First, we have the quick escape.” Stamford whipped around the pair. “Second, we have camouflage; your ability exceeds my own.” He dropped to sea floor and retreated into a crag, slowly shifting colour until he blended almost seamlessly with the rocks around him. “Third, we have mimicry, at which your kind also excel. Mine is most useful for charades—and amusing John. Here’s my lionfish!” Stamford twisted himself. “Here’s my seasnake!” He contorted his body anew.

“Oh, do the eel, do the eel!” cried John.

Stamford’s blue body turned a shade of violet, but he soon rolled into a thin strip and wriggled around them. “But I think the main tool, to which John is referring, is our ink cloud. If a predator is following you, you can distract it or hide yourself…John, would you do the honours?”

“I’d love to!” John stood one hand up on her head in a makeshift fin and chased after Stamford, growling. “I AM GOING TO EAT YOU, MASTER SQUID! MOO-HOO-HA-HA!”

Stamford ejected a black stream into the water and sped away from John.

“OH, NO! WHERE ARE YOU, YOU TASTY SQUID?”

“Fascinating,” said Sherlock. “Let me try.”

Sherlock practiced and practiced until she was able to race and hide and disguise herself and produce puffs of dark ink at will.

“Well, I’d best be going,” said Stamford.

“No cards?” whined John, face crestfallen.

“I’ve got a date!”

John lit up. “Stamford!” she gasped.

“Cross your fins!” He winked and then was gone.

Sherlock spied the wreckage of another ship in the distance. “That’s looks interesting…” She hurried along; John followed.

* * *

“…so they had to be smuggling at the time of the storm…John?”

John sat on the railing, facing away from Sherlock, waving her tail. “Brilliant,” she said, turning. “How did you know?” The corners of her mouth turned up, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes. Her eyes were…the realization hit Sherlock like a blow to the sternum…

…bored.

_Fool!_

_You saw so many things today but you did not observe what was closest to you!_

_This creature has not wavered from your side; she has been teacher, guide, and appreciative audience for genius…_

_And what have you been? For her? To her? With her?_

_Friend? Paramour? Love?_

_Source of tedium, more likely. Magic is what you make of it._

“Enough knowledge absorption for one day, I think,” said Sherlock. “Maybe…we could…have a game?”

Sherlock’s bittersweet reward was a radiant smile that crossed John’s face. She chastised herself anew.

_Idiot!_

Then John frowned. “They’re simple games, probably far too simple for….”

“Such as?”

John wrinkled her nose and grinned. “Catch me!” She sped away, tail flashing.

When Sherlock finally cornered her, John’s eyes were bright with mirth, and her laughter bubbled around them. Sherlock could not resist pressing her lips to John’s. John pulled back, eyes wide, and smiled. “I _like_ this version!” And sped away again. The chases grew shorter, and the kisses longer, and the subsequent hide-and-seek devolved into hungry snogging in corners of sunken ships and dark caves.

Finally, a yawn escaped John.

“Where do you rest?” asked Sherlock, twirling her fingers through John’s hair.

“This way,” said John. They swam slowly, hand-in-hand, until they reached a large expanse of colourful coral interspersed with vertical ribbons of iridescent green seaplant.

“Here’s my bed,” said John as she twisted and came to rest in a small circle of sand. Tiny slivers of pink and red and orange peeked through the green curtain of vegetation that surrounded it. “It’ll be a little snug. I’ve never shared it with anyone.”

“Would you prefer I find my own?” asked Sherlock huskily.

“Not at all,” said John. She kissed Sherlock. “There’s usually a bit of grooming. Allow me.” From the sand, John produced a comb. “Sit,” she said. Sherlock curled onto the floor. Then John proceeded to comb the tangles and snarls of Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock gave herself over to the delicious sensation of the comb teeth and John’s fingers on her scalp. She groaned softly and closed her eyes.

“This is what I use.” John held out her hand in front of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock opened her eyes to a seastar in John’s palm. The creature curled its five legs. “I pay them in small clams, and they keep my hair smooth while I rest.” She gathered Sherlock’s hair in a loose braid and set two bright orange stars in tandem down the back of her head. Sherlock turned. John had her arms raised overhead, untangling her own hair with the comb.

“There is a little more investigation that I’d like to do.” Sherlock’s smile and tone were teasing.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock kissed the side of John’s neck. “Mermaid anatomy.” She licked along John’s clavicle. She nuzzled at John’s gills on either side, and John sneezed and giggled. John kept her arms overhead; she let out a soft sigh when Sherlock’s lips clamped over her nipple, and her eight tentacles wrapped gently around her lower half. Sherlock thought the noise the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard and longed to hear it again and again. She encircled John’s waist with her arms and kissed her torso, breasts and chest and ribs. Then she curled her body around John’s, tracing ribs with a curious tongue and running her fingertips along John’s back and shoulders.

“Oh, oh, OH!” cried John.

Sherlock returned her lips and tongue and teeth to John lower back, where skin met scales.

John panted. “That too, but the f-f-fin…”

Sherlock looked down and saw that her two longest tentacles were gently stroking the tip of John’s fin.

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.” John spun and reached for her. “Stop. If you keep…I’m going to…”

Sherlock froze. “You don’t want to…”

“Yes! But we could, we could,” breathed John, “mate. Together. If you wanted.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” chanted Sherlock, peppering John’s worried face with kisses.

John gripped Sherlock’s head in her hands and held her still. “Sherlock, you need to understand: mermaids mate for life.”

Sherlock cried impatiently, “John! Do you really think I have any interest in mating with anyone else?! Yes! How?”

John’s concerned look evaporated, and she smiled. “Bite here,” she indicated a spot between her neck and left shoulder, “And I’ll bite there. At the same time.” Sherlock bared her teeth. “No! When we…uh….”

“ _Oh!_ Umm…John?” Sherlock looked down at her own body. “How do I…?”

John smiled. She reached down in middle of Sherlock’s squirming tentacles. “You have…another mouth...”

“OHHH!” moaned Sherlock as John’s fingers found soft folds and a delicious heat curled inside Sherlock.

“…and a very sharp beak. Be careful, Sherlock. You can snap a man’s…” Sherlock kissed her, “…or my finger clean off.”

Sherlock focused on squeezing and relaxing her internal muscles. “Interesting,” she said, finally. “I would not harm you, John. Not for the world. Any world. Above or below. Inside or out.”

They rolled and shifted until Sherlock’s tentacles were caressing John’s fins and John’s fingers were teasing Sherlock’s internal cavity. They kissed and held each other close, floating in an erotic embrace just above the ocean floor, shrouded by gently waving reeds.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was urgent, pleading.

“Yes, now.”

Teeth sank into flesh, and Sherlock felt a jolt, like lightning, still her mind and body. John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s back and then relaxed. Sherlock stared into John’s eyes for a short eternity as the waves of pleasure ebbed. Then she blurted,

“You have my heart.”

“Which one?” asked John.

Sherlock frowned.

“You have three: two small ones by each main set of gills and a larger one that supplies blood to your entire body.”

Sherlock huffed. “Extraordinary for someone who was once reliably informed that she had none.”

“That’s not true at all, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pressed her lips to John’s shoulder reverently. “Well, you have all of them, the breathing ones and the blood pumping one…”

“Speaking of blood pumping, I am quite in the mood for…,’ said John blushing and turning away, “…if you interested…”

Sherlock curled her arms and tentacles tighter around John and murmured into her ear. “Yesss?”

“…hunting,” said John, her eyes searching Sherlock’s nervously.

“Absolutely.”

* * *

“This one should be easy,” said John, nodding to the sailor singing loudly and staggering toward the rail. “Even without a storm. Ready?”

“Ready when you are,” said Sherlock. The two opened their mouths and began to sing. They held hands like schoolgirls and swirled around the surface of the water.

“Uh? What? What’s that?! Oh! Oh! Two of you!” The sailor leaned over the rail. Sherlock and John beckoned and…

_Chu-chu-chu!_

_Plop!_

“You’re right, John. There isn’t much sport in that.”

John shrugged. “Want to rescue him?”

“As long as I can deduce him before we give him back.”

John smiled. “Fair enough.”

They dove below the surface. Sherlock gazed at John’s swimming form, her hair and lithe body moving through the water. She caught up with her and halted her with a long kiss.

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you. Come on, let’s get him back before it’s too late. OH NO!”

A grey figure approached the sinking man. Then the rows of sharp teeth appeared.

“SHARK!” cried John, pulling the man away as the shark closed in on his leg. John sped toward the surface, dragging the man with her. The shark pursued them, snapping.

“JOHN!” Sherlock raced after them. The shark lunged and bit the man’s torso in half as Sherlock sprayed an inky cloud around John. John released her grip on the body. Sherlock grabbed her tightly.

“Let’s go!”

They swam with all their combined force until the menace was far behind them. Then they huddled together, hidden in a cabin of a wrecked ship, until their breathing slowed.

“You saved my life,” panted John.

“You saved mine first. Moreover, that’s what mates do,” said Sherlock. “Let’s go home.” They swam slowly. “Maybe we can find new accommodations, something for us both, more spacious, where I can do my investigations and...That cave over there looks promising.” Sherlock swam ahead.

“Sherlock, home is this way.”

“Just a minute. It appears to be completely abandoned,” called Sherlock. Minutes later, Sherlock’s explorations were cut short by a blood-curdling shriek.

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ”

Sherlock raced out of the cave. John pulled at the ropes that closed in around her.

“ _JOHN!_ ” Sherlock grabbed her arms by the wrist through the net, but a stronger force was pulling them both toward the surface. Sherlock panicked. “I need to find a tool,” she scanned the environs, “something to cut you out. I’ll get you out, I promise, John.”

“ _THERE ISN’T TIME!_ ” cried John, looking over her shoulder.

When their joined hands broke, Sherlock screamed.

“ _JOHN!_ ”

“ _I LOVE YOU, SHERLOCK!_ ”

Then John disappeared.

Sherlock did not stop screaming.

* * *

“I don’t know what to do,” said Lestrade, wringing the cloth and placing it gently on Sherlock’s forehead.

Eyes clamped tight, Sherlock flung the cloth to the floor with her thrashing. “NO! NO!” she moaned.

Lestrade sighed. “She’s burning alive. The remedies are not working. I’ve never seen a fever go this long. Either it breaks or she does. Soon.”

“She keeps asking for John.”

Lestrade shook her head slowly. “Father? Brother? Though I never heard talk of one.” She paused. “Lover?”

“What _her_?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Who knows? All I know is that we have to try something else, but we’re running out of choices. And time.”

“We’ll be in port soon.”

“That may be our only hope. Send word that I want the best doctor, medicine man, witch woman, nursemaid—whoever—to greet us.”

There was a loud rap at the door.

“Captain?”

Lestrade huffed and rolled her eyes. “I am not the captain!”

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“Rumour is that Widow Holmes is in port.”

“What HERE?! No!”

“I ran up to the crow’s nest and had a look for myself. She’s waiting.”

Lestrade groaned and stared at the sweat-soaked body in the bunk.

“She'll have me hanged.”


	9. Red Sky at Night

“It is an herbal infusion,” said Mycroft, handing her a mug. “From the bark of a tree.”

“At this point, what harm can it do?” Lestrade put the cup to Sherlock’s lips. “Drink, Sherlock, please. Drink.” Sherlock’s lips were sealed. “Maybe the spoon.” Mycroft handed it to her. Lestrade pressed the spoon to Sherlock’s lips. “For John, Sherlock. Drink it for John.” Sherlock’s lips parted, and Lestrade quickly tipped the liquid into Sherlock’s mouth. “Swallow, swallow, that’s a girl. Slowly.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“I was going to ask you,” said Lestrade. “Who is John? She’s been calling for him the whole time.”

Mycroft scratched her head. “We had a great uncle, I believe, but other than that, it’s a mystery to me as well.”

Lestrade set the spoon in the mug. She sighed and rubbed her face with two hands.

“You may rest,” said Mycroft. “I will tend to her.”

Lestrade shook her head. “ _This_ I know how to do: make stubborn little girls take their medicine.” She looked up and gave Mycroft a weary smile. “I am so very, very sorry, Widow Holmes. I let her be killed. I sat by and did nothing and watched her be killed. Cowardice. I will have to answer for that to you, to my conscience, and to my God.”

“I suspect that I am the most forbearing of the three. You were put in an untenable situation by a villain. If actions on my part played a role, then it is I who need to ask for your forgiveness.”

Lestrade forced another spoonful in Sherlock’s mouth. “Moriarty made…allegations…against you. Said she had proofs that would guarantee your personal and financial ruin and end my marriage. I saw what she had done to Sherlock. I saw the power she had to make people believe the most fantastical notions and bend them to her will. Though she called Sherlock a witch, her influence was near sorcery—in my mind, at least. And she was ruthless. I had no doubt she would do what she threatened. You have been immeasurably generous to me and my family, affording me work and my girls an education in safe environs. I was scared for myself and for you, and I allowed myself to be silenced while wickedness prevailed. Cowardice.” Lestrade spat the word. “Did she go through with her threat?”

“ _The Science of Deduction_ sank, Navigator, in a storm some days after you and Sherlock departed. All crew and cargo were lost.”

The spoon rattled violently in the cup. Mycroft quickly took both from Lestrade’s hands. Lestrade crumpled onto the bench, face frozen in horror.

“All? Lost?” The two words were whispers.

“Yes. I even took the liberty of checking with the local authorities and going through the unpleasant task of exhuming Moriarty’s body. It washed onto shore with several others. They were buried together. I wished to see her with my own eyes as such villains, in my experience, have a Lazarus-like tenacity for resurrection. Moriarty is dead. It pains me that I was not able to oversee the administration of justice personally. But nature is, at times, an able and efficient ally. So that particular peril is extinguished.”

Lestrade shook her head slowly.

Mycroft continued, “You may find yourself wanting, Navigator, but I prefer to focus on the fact that you abandoned the mutinous ship at first opportunity, secured this vessel—which you could ill-afford with your own meagre funds—and went in search of my sister and _found her._ You found her in time to treat her illness and before other misfortune could befall her. For that, you have my gratitude.”

“The night she appeared, I was so drunk, so utterly without hope, I thought it was a dream at first. I was prepared to…”

Mycroft waved her hand dismissively. “Daughters need their mothers.”

Lestrade smiled and stood up; she brushed her hair from her face and retied it. Then she took the spoon and cup from Mycroft and said resolutely, “That they do.” She turned to Sherlock. “Once more into the fray. Let’s wash her and change the bed linen. Again. And I’ll work at getting more of this in her.”

When Lestrade returned with clean sheets and towels, Mycroft handed her a string of beads. Lestrade smiled. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for writing me. If Moriarty’s…allegations…in any way disturbed you…”

Lestrade huffed. “Like I said, fantasy was a weapon for her. I understand that I and my family may have been the object of your philanthropic desire—and I for that I am eternally grateful, but I am a married mother of five!” She laughed and gestured to her body. “I am no one’s idea of a paramour!”

Mycroft cleared her throat. “Well…shall we?” She took the linen from Lestrade.

* * *

Mycroft gave a startled grunt at the rough tap at her shoulder. Then she felt arms tight around her and words in her ear: “The fever. It’s broken.” Lestrade released her, and Mycroft stared. Lestrade whispered excitedly, “The fever. It’s broken. Finally.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock. “Good, good,” she mumbled. She coughed and blinked and wiped her eyes. “Good,” she said more clearly, returning Lestrade’s smile. “I’ve arranged proper accommodation for all of us in port when she’s strong enough to be moved.” She stood and walked toward the door of the tiny cabin.

“I was wrong about you, Widow Holmes,” said Lestrade. “I didn’t think you cared so much for your sister, but these days were not just familial obligation. You love her.”

“Caring is not an advantage, Navigator, so I would appreciate it if you kept that knowledge a secret. Between us nursemaids.”

Lestrade nodded slowly; Mycroft closed the door behind her.

* * *

Sherlock slumped in bed and glared at the white wall in the white room.

“You owe me,” she hissed.

“Owe _you_?! You owe me a ship, a crew, and many, many bloody pounds worth of tea!”

“The storm destroyed your ship and your tea. But it might have survived if it had had a decent navigator and an excellent captain, that is, if _you had kept your bloody eyes to yourself!_ You really showed your hand, didn’t you, Sister Dear?” Sherlock sneered. “She has no idea, does she? _How you feel_. Moriarty figured it out. I figured it out.”

“Shut up. You may have lost one ally in your fray because of me, Sherlock, but the crew mutinied because you can’t help opening your mouth and making enemies _just to show that you are clever!_ ”

“I want a boat and a small crew. I want to go back out there and find…”

“Find what? Or should I say who? John?”

Sherlock’s head whipped. She stared at Mycroft.

“Who is he, Sherlock?”

“None of your business.” Sherlock curled on her side, facing the wall, back to Mycroft. “Give me my boat,” she demanded.

“You will not get one pence from me until I know who he is and what happened and why you insist on returning to sea.” Mycroft sat on the chair and crossed her arms.

Sherlock was silent.

“Sherlock, while you have been causing me no end of grief in this tiny corner of the globe, the world is changing. The way that tea—spices, everything—is being brought from the East is changing. There are new boats, driven by steam, not wind. A new passage-way through the Mediterranean is opening. And I need to be back in London ensuring that the Holmes Trading Company is employing every advantage to stay competitive, to stay viable. I need to be there, not here, by some sickbed, wheedling a love story out of an obstinate child.”

“Then leave.”

Mycroft smiled ruefully at Sherlock’s back. “I know you, Sister Dear. If I go, you will find your boat and your crew and go look for your John yourself. And you can barely stand. How many times must you court death? Tell me who John is. And,” she added as Lestrade approached, “you could have a modicum of gratitude for the woman that saved your life.”

Sherlock turned abruptly. “Saved my life?! Only after she let me die!” She glared at Lestrade and turned back toward the wall. Lestrade gave Mycroft an inquirying look. Mycroft pulled a second chair by the bedside.

“Go away, both of you,” said Sherlock to the wall.

Lestrade sat. “Tell us about John, Sherlock.”

Mycroft stood up and started pacing quickly. Her voice rose. “Tell us about John or—even at the risk of forestalling your recovery—I will incapacitate you, drag you back to London, and keep you safe and sound until you regain your senses.”

Sherlock spun to face her sister. “I’d love to see you try!”

They locked eyes for a long, tense moment.

“Fine,” said Sherlock. “You won’t believe it, but I’ll tell you. Sit.”

Mycroft sat. Sherlock recounted her tale.

* * *

 

“You’re right, Sherlock. I don’t believe it. Half-woman, half-fish?” Mycroft was on her feet again, pacing.

“Sherlock, I don’t understand what has befallen you…” began Lestrade, but her voice faltered.

“I can tell you what it is. Opium. You need a sanatorium,” said Mycroft.

“I am not hallucinating! It all happened, just as I said. I told you everything. Now, I want my boat. I am going to go back and find her. Find the island and live there. With her.”

“You’re mad. This is madness!” cried Mycroft, raking her hands through her hair.

“I LOVE HER, MYCROFT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM PREPARED TO DO FOR HER? TO FIND HER? TO HAVE HER BY MY SIDE?”

“THIS CREATURE IS A FIGMENT OF YOUR DRUGGED, SICK FANTASY AND I, FOR ONE, AM NOT PREPARED TO INDULGE IT.”

The two locked eyes again until Lestrade interrupted.

“Sherlock, how long do you think it will take you to find her?”

Mycroft stared at Lestrade, incredulously. “You believe her?! You’re both mad!” Mycroft turned her back on them.

Sherlock shook her head and shrugged. “A month? Maybe less.”

“How about a fortnight?”

“Maybe. If I had a good boat.”

“And a good navigator?” asked Lestrade, smiling.

“Maybe.”

“And if you don’t find her in a fortnight, will you go back to London? Willingly?”

Sherlock bit her lip. Finally, she said,

“Yes. But I want a _very_ good boat.”

“What say you, Widow Holmes?”

Mycroft turned and stared at them. “This is madness,” she whispered.

"You're repeating yourself," chided Sherlock. "It is _tedious_."

“I’ll ensure that she returns,” said Lestrade.

“Oh no, if this is the deal, then I am coming with you, and _I_ will ensure that she returns.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock. She extended her hand, and Mycroft shook it. “You hate boats. That will be added amusement for me.”

“Well, now that that’s settled,” said Lestrade, sighing. “Anyone for tea?”

* * *

Mycroft approached Lestrade. The sea breeze ruffled their hair; the sun shone brightly.

“Widow Holmes! You startled me! For such a tiny vessel, you’ve kept yourself quite scarce these days.”

“Seafaring is not my vocation. How is she?”

“The same,” said Lestrade. “No John.”

Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. “Why did you broker this deal? This lunacy? Indulging her whims is not advisable—on any continent or shore.”

Lestrade shrugged. “I saw…something…in her eyes. Something happened to her, Widow Holmes. I don’t know what exactly, but she’s searching for…something…and determined to find it. She was weak as a kitten, but stubborn as a donkey. And she would’ve hurt herself if she bore it alone.”

“She may do so yet. She doesn’t eat or sleep. She keeps her eyes glued toward the horizon through that telescope or pouring over the charts. She has four more days, and then I am taking her home. I will not listen to bargain or protest. From anyone.”

Lestrade nodded.

Mycroft continued, “I appreciate your loyalty, to her, to me. You will be more than adequately compensated for your time and effort when we return to London. I imagine you are eager to see your home.”

“As soon as I’m able, I want to go to Edinburgh, to visit the girls.”

Mycroft nodded. After a moment, she said, “On occasion, I go to Edinburgh for business. If our plans happen to converge, we could be…travel companions.”

“That sounds…pleasant. We’ll see. It seems a long way off right now.”

“Indeed.”

* * *

_BAM! BAM! BAM!_

“Widow Holmes!”

“Yes?” The word was muffled through the cabin door.

“Please come! She may be…disturbed. She’s talking to a sea monster.”

The door cracked, and a sliver of Mycroft’s face was visible.

“A what?!”

“Something was knocking the boat. She’s…talking to it…calling it ‘Stamford.’”

“Not John?”

“No.” Lestrade pushed open the door. “Please, please come. Oh my God! Are you ill?” The stench of vomit wafted from the room. “What happened to your…body?” Mycroft stood, her face a grey-green pallor quickly turning pink, in a light cotton shift. Lestrade stared at the small pile of padding, cushion, and pillows on the floor.

_SPLASH!_

“Oh Christ!” said Lestrade. She disappeared, calling behind her, “Come, now!”

* * *

By the time Mycroft appeared at the railing, Lestrade had already scampered down to the last rung of the rope ladder that laid against the boat.

“ _STAMFORD! STAMFORD! TAKE ME TO HER! PLEASE! TAKE ME TO JOHN! I NEED TO SEE HER!_ ”

Sherlock was flailing in the water.

Lestrade had a lasso of rope in her hand that stretched up and was tied tightly to the railing. She threw it out, but missed Sherlock entirely. She drew the rope back to her.

“No, no, Lestrade. It’s okay. This is Stamford. I know him. He knows me. Stop!”

“Sherlock, the water is icy. You’re going to freeze! This creature…”

“He won’t hurt me. Show her, Stamford.”

Then Sherlock was being lifted in the air by two arms and two tentacles and returned to the side of the boat. Lestrade moved up the ladder to make room for Sherlock, who clung to it.

“ _STAMFORD, PLEASE. TAKE ME TO HER! OR TELL HER I’M HERE, WAITING FOR HER! I WANT TO STAY WITH HER, ON THE ISLAND! TO BE HER…MATE, HER LIFE-MATE! TELL HER I LOVE HER. OR TAKE ME TO HER AND I WILL TELL HER MYSELF!_ ”

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft helplessly.

“Sherlock! Stop this! Come up here! At once!”

A strong spray of sea water drenched Lestrade and Sherlock. Then one long tentacle appeared with something white at the tip. With one hand gripped to the rope, Sherlock leaned precariously toward the water and took it. She smiled. The tentacle waved, and then the dark mound disappeared.

“Sherlock?” asked Lestrade.

“He’ll be back.” She motioned up the ladder; they both climbed. Mycroft threw heavy blankets on them when they tumbled onto the deck.

“Sherlock? What in the world…? What _was_ that?” Lestrade coughed and sputtered and pulled the blanket tighter around her.

“That was a very small Giant Squid—and the worst card cheat on the ocean floor—but he’ll be back. And you’ll see.” Sherlock held up the card, grinning:

"It's the Queen of Hearts."

* * *

John drifted on her back, moving her tail fin just enough to keep her body afloat. She had been staring at the moon and stars, but now her eyes were closed and she was dreaming.

Dreaming that she was made of…not scales or human flesh…but rather…

…wood.

By day, arms fixed behind her head, smile warming and inviting, eyes triumphant, breasts and chin high as the waves buffeted the prow of the ship.

A figurehead.

A fixed adornment of beauty and sailors' good fortune.

But by night, when the violin song drifted down, her body would come alive and loosen from its mooring. And when she volleyed herself onto the deck of the ship, she would find that she had feet, not fins. Feet for dancing. And the violin would play sweetly and she would dance. And spin. And jump. And perform all manner of acrobatics to the melody that supported and guided her movements like a dance partner and caressed her like a lover.

She dreamt she was being lifted, into the night air, her arms outstretched, one knee bent, one straight behind her, flying, cresting on a wave…

…that crashed over her.

“Aargh!” She surfaced, spinning her head. “Stamford! That was a very good dream!”

The round mound appeared. "Well, hello, stranger! Find yourself a mate and you've got no time for the likes of your ol' pal..." Tentacles and arms were waving rapidly. “What?! Really?! Oh, Stamford. Let’s go!”

* * *

Mycroft pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. Lestrade was slumped against the bulkhead, snoring. Three mugs of strong tea lay cooling, untouched on the table. “Sherlock, it’s almost dawn…” Sherlock cut her off with a wave of her hand.

A faint voice called. “Sherlock?!”

“There she is!” Sherlock punched Lestrade’s shoulder as she hurried out of the cabin.

* * *

“John!”

John smiled up at her.

“Over here,” said Sherlock, pointing. She scurried to the other side of the ship and hopped into a small rowboat. She began yanking cords, lowering it to the water.

“You’ve been ill, Sherlock. I can tell,” said John with a frown, holding gently onto the side of the rowboat.

“I’m okay now. John, Warm Water or Cold Water, we belong together. I want to stay with you. I can live on the island and make my home there.”

“Sherlock…” Then John’s eyes drifted upwards. “…we have an audience.” Two sets of large, round eyes peered over the side. “The navigator…”

“And my sister,” grumbled Sherlock. “I needed money for the boat, and she insisted on coming. I…I had to tell them…John. About you. They don’t believe me, of course, but…”

“I thought your sister was also a proper genius,” teased John.

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “She thinks that she is more intelligent than I am…but of course…that claim has yet to be empirically proven…”

John grinned. “Want to show her she’s wrong?”

Sherlock laughed. “Always.”

John lifted her arms, and Sherlock helped her into the rowboat. They pulled on the ropes, and the boat rose.

When they reached the top, John said, “Hello. I’m John Watson.” She flopped her tail against the bottom of the rowboat. Sherlock just draped an arm around John’s shoulder. And beamed.

Mycroft and Lestrade stared, mouths slack.

John looked at Lestrade. “You look much better than the last time I saw you.” Lestrade’s expression was still frozen. John hummed the lullaby.

“It was…it was…a dream,” said Lestrade vaguely.

John shook her head. “But to be fair, I get that a lot.”

Mycroft cleared her throat. She looked at John’s lower half. “Mycroft Holmes. May I make an examination of…?”

“Only if I can make an examination of yours!” said John icily. Mycroft blushed.

“A little privacy!” hissed Sherlock.

Mycroft hooked an arm around Lestrade’s waist and pulled her toward the prow. “Come, my Dear.” Then she stopped. “It was very nice to meet you, Miss Watson,” she said formally.

“You, too,” said John, smiling as the pair retreated.

* * *

“John, I was wrong to leave you. I want to stay. On the island. Be your mate, your life-mate. If you’ll have me.” Sherlock took John’s hands in hers.

“Sherlock, you’ll be bored within a week! You belong with your own.”

“I belong with you, John.”

* * *

“She said, ‘I belong with you, John,’” whispered Mycroft.

“Oh my!” said Lestrade. They were pressed together, against the bulkhead, ears to the wall.

“I don’t know what’s more incredible: the existence of a half-human, half-piscine race or the fact that my sister is in love with one of its members.”

“I want to see,” said Lestrade. They switched places, and Lestrade pressed her face to the portal. “Oh, they’re going to kiss! Oh, _Mycroft_! It’s so romantic! Makes you believe in all kinds of…miracles…possibilities…doesn’t it?”

Mycroft bowed her head, hiding her flush in shadow.

“Indeed.”

* * *

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you, John.”

Their lips met.

“Oh, oh!” cried John. “Sherlock!” She looked down, gone were the scales and fins. “I have legs!”

“Extraordinary,” breathed Sherlock. “Do they…hurt?”

John shook her head. “I don’t…think so, but....” She made to stand.

“Wait, wait.” Sherlock hopped out of the rowboat. Then she scooped John up in her arms and laid her feet carefully on the deck. John wobbled, but then stood upright. She took one step, then another, with Sherlock’s arms hovering around her.

“OH MY!” The exclamation erupted from a forward cabin.

“I think we still have an audience,” said John with amusement. Her steps grew steadier.

Sherlock produced a large blanket and wrapped it around John. “Let them watch,” she said. “People do little else.”

By the time that John had reached the prow of the boat, her steps were sure. She did a slow pirouette.

Sherlock smiled and held out her arms, and John launched herself into them.

“Life-mate?” asked Sherlock.

“Life-mate,” agreed John. “Wherever the wind takes us.”

They kissed and sailed off into the sunrise.

Together.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So two nods to historical accuracy here, and one blatant misrepresentation. The advent of steam clippers and the opening of the Suez Canal marked the end of the sail clipper as the primary vessel for transporting tea from China to London. But the use of quinine, made from the bark of the cinchona tree, had been used as an antimalarial for at least two hundred years prior to the setting of this story. It wouldn't have been novel; it would have been well-established.
> 
> I have to say that of the dozens of teas that I tried in writing the twelve stories of the tea series, Teavana’s [Black Dragon Pearl](http://www.teavana.com/the-teas/black-teas/p/black-dragon-pearls-black-tea) is my hands-down absolute favourite. And the only one that I managed to consume all 2 ounces.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope this satisfied those readers seeking a Happily Ever After.


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